


Compromise

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Crying, First Kiss, Inline with canon, Light Angst, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25630051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Never before, in grueling practice or tournament tiebreaks, has Ryoma seen unhappiness so stark on Momoshiro’s face." Ryoma makes a decision and Momoshirio makes a request.
Relationships: Echizen Ryouma/Momoshiro Takeshi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	Compromise

Momoshiro is a cheerful person. Ryoma realized that his first day at Seigaku, when he was met with a beaming smile and the easy welcome that he has come to know characterizes every interaction Momoshiro has with those around him, whether teammates or rivals or complete strangers. More than realizing: over the weeks and months that have passed since that first day he has come to depend on it, until the warmth of Momoshiro’s laugh and the brilliance of his smile are enough all on their own to loosen his shoulders and draw an answering curve to Ryoma’s own mouth. He likes all of his teammates, has grown accustomed to their various quirks and enjoys playing against any of them; but it is Momoshiro whose company Ryoma seeks out, and Momoshiro’s friendly cheer that Ryoma has come to depend on the way he depends on morning sunlight.

In the months they have known each other, Ryoma has never seen Momoshiro like this. Intense, yes, his expression tight with the determination to win; or distant, as he was when he lost his regular position and had to find his way back. But never before, in grueling practice or tournament tiebreaks, has Ryoma seen unhappiness so stark on Momoshiro’s face.

“Echizen,” Momoshiro says, his eyes dark and his mouth tight and his expression an echo of the one he wore on the court when Ryoma’s body betrayed the unhappy choice of his mind and failed to provide the effort he asked of it, the effort Momoshiro deserved of him. “You’re going to the US Open?”

Ryoma’s throat is tight, fixing itself hard around the knot that has been weighting inside his chest for days, a lump of unhappiness that has slowed his steps and loosened his grip until he can’t move, can’t smile, can’t  _ play_. He couldn’t continue like that, couldn’t go on trudging down a path that took him ever farther from his own desire; but his decision nearly chokes him, now, as he faces down the one person he least wants to hurt, the one person who will feel his decision the most keenly. He ducks his head, feeling the absence of his hat brim and the protection it could offer for the answer he knows he wears across his face, however little he wants to give it. He presses his lips together, stares at the ground, and brings all his will to bear on the effort of swallowing so he can force speech past his lips. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” There is a pause. Ryoma can hear the faucet behind him still splashing into the trough beneath it. His attention clutches to the sound, blurring it to a white-noise roar in his ears as he waits for Momoshiro’s reply, but when it comes with the force of a heavy sigh it’s loud enough to sweep over the sound of the water and pull Ryoma’s gaze back to Momoshiro’s face before he can make the decision to.

The tension is gone. All the anger that was there, that Ryoma knows he deserved, has drained away. It’s given way to a creased forehead, and soft eyes, and a trembling mouth, and in the first breath of seeing it Ryoma feels the blow strike straight through him as Momoshiro’s grief lands with far greater force than all his unprecedented anger did.

“I just.” Momoshiro blinks hard, his head ducked forward and down, and Ryoma sees tears overflow past the edge of his lashes to run paths of sparkling wet across his cheeks. His own throat tightens, closing his breathing off with the force of the pain in him, and Momoshiro seizes a breath and speaks. “I really wanted to go to the Nationals with you, Echizen.”

Ryoma can’t answer. His throat is too tight, his words too far gone; Momoshiro’s tears have stripped away the easy friendship that has always before been enough to soften Ryoma’s usual stoic silence into casual conversation. There is nothing he can say, no words to give to his answer, the  _ me too _ aching so hard in his throat that it is impossible to speak it aloud. Ryoma’s eyes are burning, his vision blurring as he stares helplessly at Momoshiro crying, and it is Momoshiro himself who ducks his head and struggles into speech.

“Man,” he manages, his voice pitching up into an imitation of his usual cheerful ease that cracks over the emotion still clear across his face. “I ran all over everywhere looking for you and now I’m all sweaty.” He steps forward and past Ryoma still standing staring heartache at him and leans in to stick his head directly under the water splashing from the faucet. It tumbles through his windswept hair to stick the locks flat to his head and sweep away the tracks of his tears with the water, and there is no way Ryoma can hear the catch of Momoshiro’s breathing fighting back tears but he can still feel his chest tighten like it’s a fist closing around each inhale Momoshiro takes.

Momoshiro emerges from the water after a minute, hair soaked and face dripping and nothing but the faint color around his eyes to prove the tears that were there a moment before. When he turns back to Ryoma he has even found the shape of his old smile again, although it doesn’t make it all the way to his eyes and Ryoma can see the effort trembling beneath the curve of it.

“Okay,” he says, and lifts his arm to drag a hand across the damp at his face as he takes a deep breath. “You’re gonna do great at the U.S. Open, anyway.”

Momoshiro’s frown is gone, the marks of his tears swept away from everything but memory by the water he splashed over his head and face. His smile is brightening with every breath, gaining in steadiness by its own shape until it has spread to crinkle the corners of his eyes and beam across the whole of his face. But Ryoma looks at him smiling, at Momoshiro bringing himself back together to offer cheerful congratulations, and it’s his own mouth that pulls itself down, his chest that clenches tight on a sob.

“Momo-senpai,” he says, and there’s enough quiver on his voice that Momoshiro’s smile softens into the beginning of concern. Ryoma blinks, feeling his eyes burn hot with emotion, and when he takes a breath it sticks and catches on the knot in his throat. “I—I wanted to play at Nationals with you too.” Momoshiro’s mouth goes soft, his eyes widen, and then Ryoma’s vision blurs and he has to duck his head and struggle through the sob that has stuck itself in his throat. His eyes overflow, tears spilling down his cheeks before he can stop them, and Momoshiro breathes out a gusty exhale.

“Echizen,” he says, and as Ryoma hiccups a breath Momoshiro comes forward to cover the distance between them in a single stride. Ryoma’s hands tighten to fists at his sides, he sets his jaw tight against the tears trying to break free of his control, and then there is a touch against his face, the heat of Momoshiro’s palms fitting against his jaw, and Ryoma forgets the tears overflowing his lashes to look up in a surge of surprise. Momoshiro’s hands press closer, his hold steadying Ryoma before him, and when he ducks down his mouth lands exactly against Ryoma’s own.

Ryoma doesn’t move. Momoshiro’s hands are firm at the sides of his face, and their hold is urging him to stillness; but he could step back, he could lift his hand to push at the other’s arm and urge him away. But he doesn’t, and he doesn’t want to. It feels good, feels  _ right_, to have Momoshiro’s lips pressing against his own: to have Momoshiro kissing him, and Ryoma standing still for the heat of Momoshiro’s mouth on his. Momoshiro’s hands shift against him, his fingers sliding to a steadier hold; and Ryoma realizes he can feel Momoshiro trembling, can feel the strength in the other’s hands thrumming uncertainty against his skin. Warmth swells against the inside of his chest, affection surging brighter and warmer than the tears that were uppermost, and Ryoma shuts his eyes, and tilts his chin up to meet Momoshiro in kind.

They are only standing there for a minute. Momoshiro’s mouth presses to Ryoma’s, Ryoma turns his head up in answer; and then Momoshiro is letting him go, his hands going slack a moment before he draws back from the press of their mouths together. They stand still like that, a step apart and silent with breathlessness; and then Momoshiro drags a deep breath into his lungs, and speaks at once.

“Play me again.” Ryoma lifts his head to look up. He means to meet Momoshiro’s gaze, to hold the other’s attention with the same steady force he always does, but his focus gets caught on the way, sticking at the shape of the other’s lips for a moment before he can make himself continue on. Ryoma can feel his face heat, his cheeks coloring to a self-conscious flush, but Momoshiro just goes on watching him, his mouth catching on a sideways smile and his eyes brighter and more brilliant than Ryoma has ever seen them before.

Ryoma has to work on a swallow before he can answer. “What?”

“Before you leave.” Momoshiro jerks his head in the direction of the tennis courts. “I want a rematch.”

Ryoma huffs an exhale. “I already lost in the ranking tournament,” he says. “If I play you again—”

“Then I get a real match,” Momoshiro interrupts. “With you really playing against me.”

Ryoma looks at him. Momoshiro’s face is still wet from the splash of the water, his hair tousled up around his head. There are traces of tears in the red around his eyes, however well-washed the tracks of them may be; but his mouth is soft, his smile sweet. Ryoma looks at the curve of Momoshiro’s lips, feels his own tingling with the weight of a self-consciousness he’s never felt before, and when his own mouth begins to turn up at the corners he lets it free as he meets Momoshiro’s gaze through the weight of his lashes.

“Sure,” he says. He clears his throat of the pressure of emotion sticking in it and shrugs. “If you want to lose that badly, Momo-senpai.”

Momoshiro’s smile is almost as bright as the laugh that spills up his throat. “Big talk, Echizen.” He reaches out to push his hand up to ruffle through the other’s hair before his arm drops around Ryoma’s shoulders to pull them in comfortably alongside each other. “Let’s see you back it up on the court.”

Ryoma’s chest is still tight, his throat still knotted with awareness of what he’s giving up, of the sacrifices he has to make to prevent a greater loss. But Momoshiro’s arm is around his shoulders, and his mouth is glowing warm as summer, and he can’t help his laugh any more than he can keep from leaning in to press his shoulder closer against Momoshiro’s chest.


End file.
